


Heart of Brooklyn

by Rags (RedK_addict)



Series: Brooklyn Roots [4]
Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedK_addict/pseuds/Rags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spot understands. Race's heart belongs in Brooklyn. But Spot also knows what dangers lie in wait in the shadows. What drove him out can't keep him out, but Race may find another reason to leave the borough that turned its back on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart of Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> I really, _really_ shouldn't be posting this yet. Mostly because I haven't got much more than this written so far. First thing I wanna say about this is that the updates will be far-spaced. You have been warned. There's a good reason for that, though, and it is because this story is like the _Despair's Edge_ of the Newsies fandom for me. In other words, this is my baby, so I want to make sure each chapter is perfect before it goes up. That also means I'll likely spend the majority of my time obsessing over the plot, as well as taking insane amounts of time to actually complete it _(Despair's Edge_ took me almost a year to finish). Secondly, and on that note, you might think that since this story is so dear to me, I will take offense to people criticizing it. On the contrary, say what you want about my story. Please. I honestly don't care, because as this story _is_ so very dear to me, nothing you can say will make me change anything. I'm already going through a beta (props and many, many thanks to methegirl, btw) to get most of the confusing/weak/just plain bad kinks out, so if you simply can't stand the plot, then just don't read it. Simple solution. I don't mean to sound rude. I always enjoy constructive criticism. But for this story, it'll just be one of those "Thanks for the input, I'll remember that _next time_" kinda things, if ya know what I mean.
> 
> Okay, the real reason I'm posting this first chapter now is mainly because it's been finished for weeks and it's been taunting me. Also, I'm going unexpectedly out of town this weekend (aka tomorrow through Monday) and will have no opportunity for updating anything else. (Sadly, methegirl, this also means an absence from the forum for the beginning of Jack week... Sorry! I'll make it up, I promise! Icons as soon as I get back, and maybe a fic by the end of the week...) Don't worry, my notebook is going with me, and if it kills me I plan on having an update for _Close, but No Dice_ by the end of this week. Okay, I think that's everything. Oh, except that this story is, in fact, a sequel to both _Back of the Line_ and _Gamblin' Pride_. Most of the time I'd say it's not necessary to read those first, but in this case it is highly recommended. They're oneshots anyway, so it's not like it's too much to ask, right? Mkay, hope you enjoy this as much as I do! And don't forget to leave me some feedback!

His heart belonged to Brooklyn.

That's the way it had always been. And that's the way it would stay. He'd grown up there, and something told him that eventually he'd die there, too. No one understood why. And he wouldn't ever try to explain it. Spot seemed to know more about it than anyone, but even the fearless leader of Brooklyn could never fully grasp the concept.

Every day, he'd sit at the distribution center, pretending to read headlines and articles, all the time waiting for the other boys to leave so he wouldn't be followed. And then he'd set out. Of course, he lived in Manhattan, but there were reasons for that. Reasons he'd rather not bring up to anyone. Reasons that, he assumed, were long gone and buried somewhere with the rest of his past. No one asked, so no one knew. But every day, after everyone else had left to sell their papes on whatever street corners they may have chosen, Racetrack would head off to Brooklyn, to his special spot that no one else knew about.

He'd start on the angled corner of East 21st and Gravesend Neck, out near Sheepshead Bay. It was a more well-to-do side of town, but he didn't mind getting looks. Uppity rich folk still bought newspapers. He'd usually sell about half of them before some bull came and shooed him away, saying something about "decreasing the aesthetic appeal of the neighborhood", whatever that meant. Then he'd walk the few blocks down Ocean Avenue and finish off selling at the track. Once he was finished, the remainder of the afternoon was often spent hiding under the bleachers, watching the races, listening for tips, and placing bets.

Or so he'd like people to think. Sometimes he _would_ stay a little longer, drawn by the allure of the races to place his hard-earned money on some strapping bay or feisty chestnut. After all, he was still a gambler. On occasion, he'd make a couple extra bucks this way. But more often than not, as soon as his papes were sold, he'd turn right back around and head for 21st and Gravesend.

Not that he'd ever admit to it if you asked. He never told anyone. As far as anyone else knew – Jack Kelly included – he was called Racetrack because that's where he spent all of his time. But Spot knew. Spot was the only one who knew the truth, but only because he was persistently curious. He knew Race sold in Brooklyn, but after the thrown poker game, he also knew it had to be more than the track that drew him there. And it certainly wasn't the fond memories. In fact, sometimes he wondered if Race had _any_ fond memories of Brooklyn. Which was why he was so curious in the first place to see what could possibly pull the little runt back into such a painful borough.

The very next morning, after Race had thrown the game for him, Spot arrived at the Brooklyn distribution center earlier than usual and headed straight for the bridge with his papes. He chose a spot nearby where nobody would immediately recognize him, but where he could still see anyone coming or going, and settled in to sell headlines while he waited for Race to show up. He didn't have to wait long. If nothing else, the little Italian was habitually punctual. Spot could see him strolling down the street, shouldering his fifty-or-so papes, looking like he was on a mission. From the looks of it, he hadn't sold one paper.

Race passed him by without noticing him, and so Spot followed carefully, selling here and there as he went and trying not to be seen. As the morning wore on and his stack of papes ran low, he began to wonder if perhaps he'd been seen – or if, maybe, he had been wrong – because Race still hadn't sold any of his papers yet, and they were still heading more or less in the direction of Sheepshead Bay. But when the little Italian finally stopped on the corner of Gravesend Neck and East 21st, settling down to sell his papes, Spot knew his guess had been right. They were still several blocks north of the track.

With a triumphant smirk, he settled himself into an alley nearby to watch the kid work. Race was downright charming when it came to selling headlines. And he was good at it, too. Much better than the last time Spot had watched him sell years ago. One thing he noticed was that Race didn't seem to have a sympathy routine, or if he did, he didn't use it. Probably a pride thing, he figured. Spot was the same way. If nothing else, though, he did play up on his height to his advantage, pitching his voice up ever so slightly and flashing his crowded smile at everyone who passed by. If Spot didn't know any better, he'd think the kid was thirteen.

But Spot did know better, and he also knew that there was a very specific reason Racetrack was here. He was determined to find out what it was. So every morning for the next several days, he would follow Race all the way from the Bridge to the corner, analyzing his every move, searching for a purpose, a reason, a pattern, anything. By the end of the week, he still hadn't figured it out, and was beginning to lose confidence in his instincts. So far, every single day, Race had walked through Brooklyn by the exact same route, stopped at the exact same street corner, sold until the exact same cop came and shooed him away, and then went on to Sheepshead to finish selling.

And then, one day, Spot stopped watching Race and started watching the people around him. And that's when he caught it. It wasn't like it was on purpose or anything. He was bored watching Race go through the exact same routine every day, and had just let his mind and his focus wander away to the passers-by that were walking down the street. One of them in particular caught his eye. She was a petite little thing, with long brown hair and shining eyes. Her smile was positively intoxicating, with her perfect rows of brilliant teeth. And she was walking down 21st toward Racetrack's corner.

Spot watched carefully as Race tipped his hat and smiled charmingly at her, offering her a paper as she passed by him. She gave him a warm smile of her own as she bought one, and then went on her way to a large house a few doors down from the corner. The little Italian's gaze followed her until she disappeared from sight. Not long after that, the cop showed up and started waving at Race to leave.

A slow smirk formed on Spot's face as he thought back to all the other times he'd watched Race sell that week. Come to think of it, he'd seen the girl before, but for some reason he hadn't paid much attention to her, or to the way Race had interacted with her. He followed Race down to Sheepshead, staying well out of sight. But instead of going his own way – as he had every other time before – he waited outside until Race left the track. Sure enough, he went right back to the street corner, this time without his papes.

And he just stood there, staring at the house the girl had disappeared into with his cap in his hands, as if waiting to catch a glimpse of her again before he returned to Manhattan. Spot shook his head. The poor boy was hopelessly in love.

No wonder he'd folded a straight flush.


End file.
